


Duty

by hartstrings



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/M, Like father like son, Martin's caught feelings, Nord!Hero of Kvatch, Pre-Relationship, Star-crossed, Tamriel Politics, being emperor actually kind of sucks, the HoK doesn't speak of hers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27530098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartstrings/pseuds/hartstrings
Summary: An Emperor needs heirs. A former prisoner would make a poor wife. Martin thinks of the future.
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Duty

“I’m yet to step foot within the Imperial City, and already they’re seeking a bride for me.”

Martin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. Hours of poring over crumbling scrolls and books written in dying tongues had been interrupted by a very different kind of reading material - that afternoon Jauffre had set a parchment of his own upon Martin’s desk. A list of suitable imperial consorts. After years spent in the priesthood, a wife was far from his mind.

The Hero of Kvatch, Vaka, leaned against one of the ironwood columns holding up the roof of Cloud Ruler Temple’s great hall. She’d become a pillar herself, in Martin’s view - a constant fixed point, a figure of strength to rely on. A friend. Her expression was neutral as ever. “Seeing firsthand what a lack of Septim blood on the throne does to the world, I can see why they’re so eager.” A humorless smirk cracked her stony exterior. “Not to say I don’t enjoy having a job.”

His shoulders slumped. “You’re right. I see the necessity of it - I’m no stranger to duty. Still…”

“It’s too soon. I agree.” She had little understanding of the machinations of the nobility - even less so than Martin, which was saying something - but her agreement soothed him. At least he wasn’t alone. “You’re the emperor. Can’t you tell them to hold off until you’re on the throne, at least?”

“Would that I could. As you said - the world’s falling to pieces. I suppose Ocato wants some heirs to rely on as soon as possible.” Martin returned her humorless smile. “We men must seem fragile to mer. I’m not a young man anymore.”

Vaka scoffed. “You’re not an old man, either.” She pushed away from the pillar and sauntered over to the desk. He felt her strong hands grip the back of his chair, and saw her braid swing over her shoulder as she leaned over him to peer at the slip of parchment herself. “Well. Let’s see what poor women have been offered up to the executioner’s block. Anyone we know?”

“My true title has been kept secret, they think they’re marrying a minor noble.” Martin warned. “Don’t expect any Altmer noblewomen. There’s the daughter of a Redguard merchant lord, some Breton ladies-”

“Countess Carvain.” Vaka interrupted him, finding the name on the list he was avoiding. “Clever choice. Young, independent - and your best bet at pleasing my homeland, short of finding some jarls' daughters - and I don’t see any of them on Jauffre’s list.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be a jarl’s daughter, would you?” Martin asked hopefully - Vaka kept her past close to her chest, and it’d be wondrous providence if she happened to have noble blood running through her veins. Most of his options were strangers - Countess Carvain was the best on the list, he’d liked her the few times they’d met - but he dearly wished to at least be a friend of whoever he was expected to spend the rest of his life with. _A friend_ \- part of his heart wished for more, but reading her own intentions was impossible. It was probably for the best.

As he expected, she scoffed again, and while he couldn’t see her face Martin knew she wore a scowl judging by her tone. “Don’t joke about that. I’m a criminal who’s good at killing things. I’d make a poor bride.”

Martin disagreed. “You’re the Hero of Kvatch. That has to count for something.”

“Very well, I’m a _wanderer_ who’s good at killing things.” Vaka corrected herself. “I’m sorry, but you’re well and truly on your own.” Martin’s chair creaked as she released her grip on it, circling to the front of his desk to look him in the eye. “Countess Carvain’s your best bet, I’d say. You nobles -” Martin would never get used to being referred to as such. “- don’t need love in your marriages. She’s independent enough not to care, I think - she’s unmarried for a reason. Can’t say I blame her. And she’s intelligent. You can talk about books while you make your heirs.”

Martin’s look of horror made her laugh, a great, booming sound - he knew of Nord legends of the Voice, and wondered if someone in her bloodline ever possessed it. Always he could hear her in the halls, conversing with one of the many Blades. She’d be a great commander of the battlefield, if she ever had the taste for it - but Vaka was ever one for isolation. For the first time he realized that if he was to ascend the throne, their evening conversations would be no more. It made his chest hurt. 

“I’m glad you’re having fun, at least.” he muttered, turning his attention back to the list of names. “You suppose the Countess would agree to the offer.”

“She'd be a fool not to. You’re more alike than you think. You’d leave her alone, she’d be free to research Akavir to her heart’s content, and you’d have a brood of imperial children with very large heads. She’s run County Bruma well, the people like her - she’d make a good empress.” Vaka rested her hand on his desk, and for what wasn’t the first time Martin marveled at how such a warrior had such elegant fingers, even crossed with silver scars. She offered him a genuine smile - a rarity. “In any case - you have to live long enough to be crowned first. Perhaps the Mythic Dawn will do you a favor.”

“The world gets to perish while I avoid a wedding.” His complaints did sound silly, when she put it that way. “You’re right. I’m being selfish.”

Something in her eyes softened, and she placed her hand over his. “You’re not. You didn’t ask for any of this, but you’ve risen to your duty anyways. It’s brave.”

“You’re the brave one, entering Oblivion itself while I sit here. Would that I could come with you.”

Vaka hastily removed her hand from his, and he wondered if he’d said something wrong. Her hollow smile returned - perhaps the subject of Oblivion was one she didn’t want to dwell on. Martin could only imagine the horror within - he’d seen enough of the horror without.

“I’d face a thousand daedra over the Elder Council.” she said with a shake of her head. Once more, she tugged her hood over her hair - announcing it was time for her to depart. “I should see if the local hunters have sighted any more gates since I was here last.”

Gates seemed to erupt from the ground with ever-increasing frequency. Martin could still recall the scent of sulfur and burned flesh, the screams of terror and roars of Daedra, and wished there was a way he could spare her from it. “It’s likely they have.” he murmured. 

She dipped her head in farewell, footsteps quiet despite her height as she walked down the length of the Great Hall. As she opened one of the large doors and a rush of cold air entered the hall, he called out.

“Vaka?”

Her face was shrouded by her hood as she looked back at him, cloak already fluttering from the wind outside.

“It’s venison stew for dinner tonight.” Martin offered lamely - the meal was her favorite, and he hoped it’d tempt her to return to Cloud Ruler Temple for the night before throwing herself back into the fray.

She only nodded. 

\--

Vaka did not return for dinner.

Martin nudged the chunks of meat in the bowl with his spoon, appetite gone despite the aroma of spices and promised warmth of the meal. Any other night without her he’d quietly eat his dinner and return to his studies, but he couldn’t help but eavesdrop on a conversation at the nearby table.

“Where’s the Hero of Kvatch?” asked Belisarius, one of the younger Blades at the temple. “She only got in this morning.”

Achille, sitting across from Belisarius, leaned in and dropped his voice low. “Jena says she saw her at that pool a few leagues north of here when she was on patrol. Crying. I think the pressure’s getting to her. Can’t blame her, I don’t think she’s ever taken a break.”

Martin’s stomach twisted, and he didn’t know if it was from lack of food or from the implication that Vaka felt the need to do her weeping alone.

“Crying?” Belisarius said, too loud, and was hushed by Achille. He dropped his voice as well. “I don’t believe it. I don’t think she’s even capable of crying.”

He wanted to stand up and correct them, to tell them that appearances were deceiving - to maybe ensure that they would have some appreciation for what she did for them all - but Baurus approached the men’s table and did Martin’s job for him. “Her heart beats like any of ours. I don’t blame her from wanting to express herself in private, given you two turn into gossipy hens the second you hear anything.”

The two men looked suitably sheepish. “Still -” Achille continued. “- I wonder why.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Baurus asked with a raised brow. 

“Then he’ll be crying.” Belisarius snickered.

Baurus sighed - and for a moment he caught Martin’s eye. There was a crease in his brow, and Martin realized he was being looked on with sympathy.

That ache in his chest returned. Martin stood, leaving his food untouched.

“Sire?” Baurus asked.

“I’m feeling a tad ill - nothing to worry about, I’m certain I’ll be fine in the morning.” Martin replied, doing his best to bat away any offers for an escort. Before the others could say any more, he departed - walking as fast as he could excuse through the hallways of the temple. His footsteps were all he could hear, and he was glad for it. He breathed a sigh of relief upon arriving at the door to his quarters at last.

Cyrus was on guard duty. “Good evening, sire. You’re here early.” He seemed happy at the event, at least - more than once he’d scolded Martin for retiring so late.

“I am.” he replied, and left it at that - sliding open the door to his chambers just wide enough for him to slip inside, and shutting it with haste behind him. Privacy in the temple was a rare thing, and he dearly longed for it.

Standing in the luxury of the imperial chambers, he felt small. Martin approached the window and gazed out of it at the highlands beyond, resting his hands on the wooden sill. It was worn - how many rulers before him had stood as he had, looking out at a landscape that shone even at night, the moon reflected off the blanket of snow on the ground?

Vaka was out there, somewhere in the cold. He wondered if that was where she would be, when all was said and done - when he was locked away on the throne. Martin refused to let her become a mere footnote in history, but he couldn’t imagine her ever leaving the wilds she so loved. Even for him.

If, as she had said, they lived through it all.

Martin’s grip tensed on the windowsill. How many emperors before him wondered for the safety of one they cared for, and feared for the future?

Perhaps the Emperor - _his father_ , he corrected himself - had felt the same as he did. Had cared for a woman who had no hope of acceptance by the council or nobility. Perhaps it was the reason Martin himself existed.

He hadn’t been joking when he asked Vaka if she was a jarl’s daughter.

Still, he couldn’t bring a bastard into the world - and he would, if she ever returned his feelings. Even if that small ember of hope in his chest burned true, duty demanded otherwise of him.

It was a hope he’d have to smother.

The landscape beyond the window blurred, his vision clouded with tears. Martin let them fall.

Like her, he did his weeping alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of WIPs to work through right now, but I'll likely be returning to these two at some point in the future. My heart will never be unbroken, Todd.


End file.
